


All Flippers, No Thumbs

by Sairin



Category: Free!
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff, Karaoke, M/M, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sairin/pseuds/Sairin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A night of karaoke after their big win doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Maybe the beer was, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Flippers, No Thumbs

**Author's Note:**

> Oneshot, written at a friend's prompting after the second episode of Free! aired. Now posted publicly for everyone else to see.

A swimmer should be graceful. Swift, agile, someone whose every movement is made with hardened concentration and flawless precision. But Makoto…

Makoto is most definitely not. Not tonight.

It’s just the alcohol—he can keep telling himself that, at least. It’s not like he hasn’t been tall and long-limbed and large-handed his whole life; it’s just that somewhere along the line of however many cans of celebratory we-won-our-first-tournament-and-nobody-broke-down-crying-over-Rin beer he’d had (and he would count them, but he’s lost track of which ones on the table are his own), his coordination went off to chase butterflies and left him with a strange disconnect between where he wanted his appendages to be and where they actually were. It’s a little frustrating for someone normally so self-conscious about the space he takes up, but with all the fun everyone else seems to be having and the warm flush that’s still tingling from his face all the way down, Makoto can’t find it in himself to worry all that much about it.

And really, embarrassment aside, there’s no one here that he doesn’t trust. Karaoke rooms are fortunately built with seclusion in mind, so it’s just the six of them—Nagisa’s on the other side of the table, bubbly as usual and having somehow managed to squirm into the lap of a particularly flustered Rei (oh, he’s playing it off well, but Makoto knows exactly what those obsessive glasses adjustments mean). Kou’s taken up an entire couch to herself in some kind of drunken, starry-eyed stupor, captivated as Ama-sensei finishes belting out an enka classic (that he must sheepishly admit he knows all the words to, but only because it’s one of his mother’s favorites) with surprising skill for someone who has definitely had the most to drink out of all of them. Here he is, of course, swaying slightly to the music with an awfully persistent smile stuck to his face, and not all that far to his left, Haru—

Makoto blinks, grin vanishing. Something’s wrong. Haru is a quiet person on the best of days, Makoto knows that better than anyone, but there’s an uncharacteristic air of negativity weighing down on his best friend tonight. His thoughts circle around each other, tripping over themselves as they search for cause and solution. Is it the beer? He can’t remember having ever seen Haru drunk before; maybe he doesn’t take alcohol well, or maybe this brand doesn’t agree with him. Or is it maybe about the race? He can’t remember all the details, exactly, but he knows Rin was there and he knows it must not have been fun for either of them, not if Rin is still so upset—Makoto is frowning sharply, now, brow furrowed as he struggles to tamp down the urge to envelope Haru in a tight hug. This isn’t the time for that, and it isn’t his place to begin with; he can’t just let this go, though. Unsure and unsteady, Makoto turns and tries to shuffle down the couch, murmuring Haru’s name to get his attention, hoping he can do something to help, wondering if maybe it would have been better if he’d waited until after they left, chiding himself for thinking too much and not thinking enough and not noticing these things like he should—and that’s when his imbalanced coordination makes a mess of things, allowing a hand en route for a comforting place on his friend’s leg to instead knock over the closest beer and spill the can’s remaining content all over Haru’s pants.

There is an immediate pause, a moment of _did that really just happen_ as the rest of the room takes in Makoto’s shocked expression and the pool of liquid seeping into dark fabric, dripping down onto the carpet. And then all at once is commotion, Nagisa’s boisterous laughter apparently so overwhelming that he has to bounce along with it (and even in this state, Makoto has the wits to notice how hard Rei’s biting his lip)—but suddenly Ama-sensei is in his face, shouting about duty and honor and how a true warrior always makes amends for his mistakes and he needs to take Haru to the bathroom _right this minute_ because he _absolutely has to help clean this up_ because this is _definitely his fault—_ and that last part stings a little, but as she shoves the two of them out of the room and points them down the hall, Makoto realizes that this may be for the best, because if Haru’s going to open up about what’s bothering him at all, it’s most likely to be when they’re alone.

She must have given them some kind of directions he hadn’t heard, because Haru takes off without him the moment the door closes, leaving Makoto to chase after until a sharp right turn takes them both into the men’s bathroom. It’s vacant, thank goodness—though with the speed that Haru whips off his trousers, he probably hadn’t bothered to check. He’s wearing his swimsuit underneath, of course, because he always does; Makoto feels the warmth in his core twist a little anyway, and is startled enough by it that he has to work his mouth a few times before his brain puts any effort into making sound come out.

“I…Haru, uh…’msorry.” The words tumble together, part alcohol and part shame making them fuzzy in his mind and sticky in his throat. “Can I…d’you…?”

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t need any help, seeing as he’s already methodically rinsing out his attire in the nearest sink and there’s not really room for two to do that activity, especially when one of those two is evidently struggling with basic bodily awareness. Try again, Makoto, try again. He steps closer, leaning against the next sink over and trying to catch his friend’s eye.

“…Are you okay, Haru? You seemed…upset, in there.” No response. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright, I didn’t mean for—to spill stuff on you, you know that.”

Haru remains silent, shoulders tight as he wrings the garment dry and the water spills over his hands, gurgling into the drain below. Makoto can’t understand it, and it’s getting to him more than it should; any other time and he’d just leave and let Haru finish by himself, but between the buoyant heat still sloshing around inside him and the lingering rush of emotions from earlier today, he can’t keep his distress contained.

“Haru, you’re really not mad at me about this, are you? If it’s the tournament, or Rin, or whatever else, just…please, say something.” His voice wobbles, chest tight at the thought of having done something to make Haru feel this way. “I know I’m not as good at reading you as you are me, and you know it too, even though I keep trying—so please don’t leave me in the dark, okay? I know you have your reasons, but—Haru, _please_ —”

And even though it’s stupid and this is all stupid, it was just beer, there shouldn’t be a problem, Makoto is starting to panic because there’s still no response, just a clenched jaw and sharpened eyes and he feels a little bit like crying—which is also stupid, and also the beer—and so in his fear and concern and utter inebriation, Makoto leans close, taking hold of fabric-fisted hands and murmuring Haru’s name one last time, closer to begging than he’s been in what must be years. And that is the last straw.

“Makoto, shut _up_.”

And it hurts, yes, but not as much as it should—because that voice isn’t angry, it isn’t spiteful, it isn’t cruel. Haru sounds exasperated. He sounds… _desperate_. And before Makoto can take another second to stop and think and worry again, there are two wet hands atop his chest and two drunken lips against his own and he realizes that maybe—possibly, but certainly only as a hypothetical—he can guess what has been bothering Haru all night.

And it feels like kind of a long time that they’re pressed to each other like that, sharp lines fitting snug enough together that he can feel two frantic heartbeats in the space of one—but Haru moves away just a moment before Makoto remembers that the former is not wearing any pants, so it was definitely not long enough (Haru doesn’t seem to agree, although surely only as the natural consequence of having a skin-tight swimsuit as his only lower body covering). Quick, quiet, but undeniably red in the face, Haru scoops up his still-damp pants and retreats to their karaoke room before Makoto can even remember how to operate his legs.

His wits don’t take long to regroup, however; blush redoubled, with a new and shyer smile tugging at the corners of his lips, Makoto trails after his friend, wondering if perhaps—when they’re done here, when Ama-sensei goes to drop them off and he’ll have the perfect moment to make an excuse—Haru wouldn’t mind having some company tonight.

It’d be a lot easier than explaining to his parents why he keeps knocking vases over, anyway.


End file.
